The licentious or libertine nature of this--and I use the term loosely--
woman's public comments notwithstanding, clearly, the fuzzy line of demarcation between being number three on Amazon.com and the plague of perpetual poverty on SSI and food stamps, or a lifetime reservation in a rubber room, is a segment of society whose character and economic priorities I shall never fathom.
With unmitigated profit as her prime directive, America's funniest domanatrix, Ann Coulter (whose email address changes with the phases of the moon due to inundation from penis enlargement solicitations), has been making the book promo rounds on national and cable television. Why anyone would invite a bug-eyed, raving lunatic to sit across the table is beyond me. If I were Leno, Letterman, King, Stewart, or Colbert, I'd make her pay to appear. Yet she suckered Matt Lauer of
NBC's Today and Tucker "Radar O'Reilly" Carlson from
MSNBC's The Situation on the ominous release date, 6/6/06, of her new--presumably legible--book,
Godless. How apropos!
So far, Adam's Apple Annie has demonstrated herself to be the seventh-grade class-clown who punctuate their scatological humor with hand-in-the-armpit fart noises. Don't laugh, you'll just encourage her.
And I thought Limbaugh and O'Reilly were dicks!
:
"You are getting testy with me!" -- Ann Coulter, 6/6/06.
-------------------------
Coulter Calls the Cops
Resemblance to persons living, dead, or otherwise, is purely coincidental.
The COPS arrive at dusk Friday, on a domestic dispute 911 call, without a siren, but with TV camera rolling. As they pull into the dirt alley to the "Last Chance" MHP of six travel trailers of varying size at the edge of town, situated snugly behind the Union 76 truck stop and the Good-Bye-Little-Friends pet crematory, 500 yards in front of the Ortho fertilizer plant. The officers spot the address: 35706-1/2 Kenworth Court, and exit the patrol car leaving the bubblegum machine flashing.
The senior officer approaches the premise, sidestepping the "Beware of Dog" sign, speaker-wired to a split hockey-stick stuck in the dirt between the gateless fence posts. He approaches the domicile, swaggering and using his heavy, baton-like flashlight for balance to avoid the outbreak of Bud cans, Camaro parts, and tiny Tootsie Rolls in the grassless yard.
The reporting individual, Annie (whose personal website is not responding at this hour), is the blue-toothed, anorexic female, possibly Olive Oyl's skinnier sister, who comes screaming out of the trailer waving a prepaid cellphone and a half bag of Cheetohs, alternately wailing, "He's hittin' on me agin!" and "Shut up, Muffin!" at something that resembles a Whoopi Goldberg wig, which is yapping constantly at her heels.
The mispresumed spouse, Rush O'Really, arrives in the open doorway and steps two feet down to the cinderblock stack serving as a makeshift stoop. He tosses another aluminum beer can, super squashed in one hand, amongst the others in the trove. He is clad only in cutoff orange sweatpants with frilled fringe below the knees and dark blue XXXs and half an L reading down the right, what would be outseam. The sweats, although no drawstring is visible, fit snugly around his hips and upper buttcrack, making no sign of falling any lower. His arms, chest, neck and back bear so much hair that he must be mainlining Rogaine. His underarm areas give the impression he simultaneously has Don King and Al Sharpton in a headlock from behind, yet his head and face are--or were-clean shaven within the past week. Randomly located, illegible and blurry, jailhouse tattoos decorate the canvas of his upper body, and he has an innie navel large enough to putt into.
When asked by the lead officer what is going on, he belches, "Nuffin'."
"Nuttin?!! Shut up, Muffin!" she screeches incredulously. "Nuttin?!! He's hittin' on me and beatin' on me and punchin' me ever' tahm he gits drunk! Shut up, Muffin!" Ann is stunningly attired in worn and fringed denim cutoffs so short and tight, surely they were borrowed from Barbie's wardrobe, and an orange tube top--strikingly resembling one of the legs missing from the male's sweatpants--with elastic under her armpits and a long white drawstring tied in a square knot in front around the fringed midriff. Her hair is dirty blonde, styled in early chemotherapy with pink curlers. Her ensemble is coordinated by a steely-colored, navel ring in her nipple-sized outtie, and matching gold colored necklace, bracelet and anklet, dangled with several stamped metal hearts of varying sizes around her greenish neck, left wrist and ankle. An oversized, lime green, Sponge Bob, digital wristwatch is strapped loosely to her right wrist, the face of which revolves towards the bottom as her hands and arms flail jerkily as she speaks. Faded pink Dollar-Store flip-flops adorn here scraggly, red-nailed, webbed, pigeon toes. "Shut up, Muffin!"
Her right eye shows signs of recent bruising, and moderate swelling causes her to blink often in order to keep it open. She licks her lips several times a minute. Dried nasal excrement encrusts her upper lip, just out of reach of her swollen tongue. "Shut up, Muffin!"
The officer asks her, "How often does he get drunk, Mam?" He wavers with one foot on a flagstone, the other toe on a rear view mirror. The other officer wrassles with Muffin as it's teeth become tangled in the laces of his shoes.
"Cut it out, Muffin! Stop it! Shut up! Well, lessee. I think this time, since a week ago Thursday."
"Where did he strike you, Mam?"
"Didn't happen!" burps the male.
"You lyin' sacka shit! Shut up, Muffin!" She points to the back of her greasy, scraggly, curlered head. The officer examines with the flashlight, finding dried blood of an indeterminate age encrusted on her scalp and curlers. "Muffin! Shut up!"
"What did he hit you with? And when did he hit you, Mam?"
"Yestiddy, or mebbe the day before. Shut up, Muffin! Yeah, it was the day before. He walloped me with the remote when he winged it 'crost the trailer whilst I was givin' mahself a pedicure. He was pissed cuz the satellite went out durin' 'Over the Hill.' GAWDAMMIT! Shut up, Muffin!"
"Didn't happen!" burps the male again, having retrieved another liquid refreshment by now.
"Why did you wait until today to report it?"
"Cawzz, jes' like always, when the food stamps come in on the 2nd, it's his turn to walk down to the Circle K for 3 packs of Newport Light 100's , the Hungryman macaroni 'n' double cheese TV dinners, a sixpack of diet vanilla-cherry Dr. Pepper, and his BEER! An' he said it was my turn. My turn is if the food stamps come in on the 1st. We agreed to it when he moved in after the tire factory closed 6 months ago. Muffin! Shut up!"
"Did not!"
"You lyin' sacka shit! Shut up, Muffin! All you ever do 'round here is read the want ads, watch TV, and stink up the chemical terlet. When you gonna get a job? I can't keep buyin' us all this cra... uh... crackers on my tips at the nail salon! You lyin' sacka shit!"
"Hey! go fuck yourself, you boney kneed bitch!" The male takes an angry step towards her, now wielding the Budweiser and a collapsed Camaro antennae, dangling 4 feet of antennae wire from his meaty hand.
Swiftly, the senior officer draws his weapon and yells, "Hold it right there!" His partner tramples the "Beware of Dog" sign to the ground, slipping and tripping across the debris-filled yard, he finally arrives behind the male, whose hands are now behind his head, and slaps on the cuffs. The partner begins to read him his rights for attempted assault while leading him to the already-opened back door of the patrol car. Muffin, still unable to extract it's teeth from the partner's shoelaces, flails at his ankle the whole way.
"Shut up, Muffin!" she screams as she dives for her ambiguous pet, catching it by one of it's appendages and yanking until the creature is freed, blood and teeth spraying as it begins to yelp. "Shut up, Muffin!"
"Where are you taking, him? Don't take him! He didn't do anything!!!"
"Mam, he was going to hit you with that car antennae."
"No he wasn't. He wouldn't do that really. He loves me! And I love him! Don't take him away, please! He's on parole. He wouldn't hit me; and it don't hurt that much anyway when he does!"
"Mam, it's too late for that now. We have to take him."
With the would-be assailant in the car, the two officers shut down the bubblegum lights but leave the camera rolling, preparing to depart. Ann is sitting on the now flattened "Beware of Dog" sign as her cutoffs all but disappear into her wedge, cradling Muffin who has finally shut up but is now licking her face leaving blood-streaked tears on her eyelids and cheeks, as she sobs sickeningly, "Why? Why? He didn't DO nuthin'! I love him. You fuckin' pigs! Let my man go!"
"Have a nice day, Mam."
The patrol car does a 7 point turn to reverse direction in the narrow, sandy alleyway, and begins to pull away. Ann launches to her flip-flopped feet, Muffin in grip, runs towards the patrol car as it pulls onto the tarmac of the truckstop, screaming, "Wait! Wait! Wait, please Wait! Wait up!"
"The patrol car stops and senior officer lowers the passenger side window, "What can I do for you, Mam?"
Panting and leaning on the roof of the car with one hand, Muffin dangling again by a fluffy appendage, she catches her breath and composes herself:
"When are they gonna show this on FOX?"
"Shut up, Muffin!"
:
JR Ford
UP (Unsubstantiated Press)
St. Petersburg, Fl.
sixtimeseven@aol.com
forty-two
7 Jun 2006
"Ann Coulter, like the action doll created in her image a few years ago, has no nipples!"-- JR Ford, Oct 2005.
Cc: anncoulter@egregiousnymphonarcissist.com
adamsappleannie@pseudopriggishpostoperativetransgender.com
acoulter@doomedtolooklikephylissdilleraftersixty.com
posterchild@bipolardisorder.org
manicdepressive@wildlyimbalancedthyroid.net.
annc@lithium&depakoteareineffectual.net
crustytwat@chastityduetoadamantignorance.com